The Eye Beholds, The Heart Remembers
by Hekate1308
Summary: She has seen many things over the course of the years. But seeing Mycroft Holmes grieve might be the most tragic thing she's ever beheld. Anthea, Post-Reichenbach.


**Author's note: I tried not to, God knows I tried not to. But I couldn't help it. I had to write. And then I realized that there are very few stories about Anthea, and barely any about her thoughts after Reichenbach. And the rest is often-repeated history.**

**I don't own anything, and please review.**

She has seen many things over the course of the years.

When you work for and closely with Mycroft Holmes, that's only to be expected.

She has seen governments fall, she has seen people, even colleagues, killed, she has seen economies crash... Sometimes more than once.

But she thinks that seeing Mycroft Holmes, the one man in Great Britain who she doesn't believe has ever betrayed an emotion, grieve right in front of her –

It just might be the most tragic thing she's ever beheld.

Of course, when it comes to presenting himself to politicians who seek his advice, to help the economy, to control the Secret Service or to help out the CIA...

He's the same.

But only then.

And only to people who don't know him well.

Which, to be honest –

Is practically everyone.

And, in a way, that's sad on its own, to know that the only man who really knew him is now lying under a rather tasteful headstone. And that the only woman who does works for him.

But, when the lights turn off, when he leaves Downing Street, when he enters the car, when he thinks he's unobserved –

She sees his shoulders slump, and there appears a faraway look in his eyes that she never saw there before –

Before his brother committed suicide.

All in all, she would never have thought that Sherlock Holmes would even consider committing suicide; she should be qualified to make this assumption, she was the one who spent hours and hours watching over him, after all, when Mycroft Holmes was out of the country or in a meeting or otherwise incapacitated (thank God that didn't happen often, her boss was a nightmare when he wasn't feeling well).

She didn't know until one and a half years after he'd hired her, that she'd have to look after the little brother of her boss – a rather unusual task, even considering her job, but then, Mycroft Holmes is everything but ordinary.

She remembers their first meeting quite well. She'd just come out of university and applied for a job at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs – and then, Mycroft Holmes had her picked up one day, after she'd done some shopping.

He looked just like he does now, back then, though minus a few worry lines (quite a lot of those have appeared since Sherlock Holmes' death). He had her brought to an abandoned warehouse, of course.

And, naturally, he'd come straight to the point. After greeting her politely. Though, ever since she started working for him, she doesn't use her real name anymore. At least when it comes to business and politics.

"I desire to know if you would be interested in working for me." He said, just like that.

"And what would that entail" she asked not entirely without suspicion – a strange, posh man, an abandoned warehouse, and a limousine with darkened windows certainly gave her more than enough reasons for being on her guard – before looking once more at his posh suit and deciding to add "sir?".

He explained the offer, and she, at first, had refused to believe it.

It sounded like one of those jobs she'd made up for herself, when she was a child.

Running the world without anybody noticing it.

She hadn't really made up a secretive and sometimes rather annoying boss, but she was more than ready to try.

She loved it, and he liked her well enough to tell her after six months that he had had her officially listed as his PA.

"Alright, then" she'd answered, "but are you sure your minor position in the British Government allows for a PA, sir?"

He smiled – a real smile, for the first time directed at her. By now she can distinguish that rather well. He doesn't smile – really smile, that is – often. He did, now and then, when he saw his brother. Very rarely, but he did. When he realized Sherlock Holmes had quit cocaine for good, for example. She'd known the difference by then – they'd already worked together for three years.

And she'd looked after Sherlock Holmes for one and a half years. Only when Mycroft Holmes, couldn't, of course, and at first, when he'd told her, about a year after she became his PA officially, that he trusted her now enough to "look after a person on Grade 2 surveillance status. Only when I am unavailable, of course".

When she realized he meant his brother, she'd been a little angry.

Now she knows that it was the biggest prove of trust he could give her.

Because she knows that no one means – no one meant so much to him as his little brother did.

So she watched.

She watched him struggle with his addiction, even watched him when he flew to America and met Mrs. Hudson. She watched him when he was arrested by DI Lestrade, and finally overcome his addiction to work with the police.

Well, she didn't really watch all of these moments, naturally (though she did help kidnap Doctor Watson). Only his elder brother ever saw most of them. But she kept herself informed. And not only because her boss was certainly more amiable when Sherlock was safe, but because somewhere, along the line, she'd started to care for both of them.

And with this thought comes the realisation that she, too, grieves a little.

Maybe it's wrong, but she can't help but feel a little bereft.

She didn't just watch him through surveillance cameras, after all; she met him now and then. When they'd seen each other for the first time, it had been her first time of looking after him and he had still been addicted to cocaine.

She'd wanted, out of curiosity, to see him in the flesh once before staring at surveillance footage for hours. Unprofessional, and something she'd never do now, but she was a little inexperienced then, as far as surveillance went.

And she hadn't expected a drug addict (stupid again) to have the same powers of deduction her boss loves to use on new faces in the world of politics.

He just went up to her, while she was sitting on a park bench, seemingly engrossed in her mobile phone, and said, "I have often informed my brother that I don't need surveillance. I don't expect that this time will have a different effect, but please, tell him again."

She looked up, surprised, and managed to stammer "Sure, Mr. Holmes".

"It's Sherlock –" and then he used her real name, and she couldn't have been more surprised.

He raised an eyebrow, a gesture the two brothers share. Shared. It's difficult, staying in the past tense while thinking about a Holmes. You don't expect them to die.

"Right" he drawled, "I'm not supposed to use your real name. I guess I should call you by your pseudonym..."

"Anthea" she answered, spontaneously. It was a name she'd never used before that day.

But she liked it, so she never used another one after.

Needless to say, it hadn't been the last time she'd spoken to Sherlock Holmes. Somehow, whenever his brother was indisposed, he seemed to know and show up at his office, just when she was keeping track of his surveillance.

He never asked her how his brother was doing.

She told him anyway, because she was aware that he'd never ask.

By some mutual agreement (that they never discussed) none of them mentioned his visits to her boss.

Though she's wondering if maybe she should do so now.

It can do no harm, and maybe –

He'd look a little less defeated.

But she decides against it, after thinking the matter over.

He already feels guilty for letting Moriarty go (another thing she never mentions, because she clearly remembers asking, "Sir – do you think that's a good idea?" and him replying curtly "It's the only option"). He doesn't need to know just how much he lost that day.

She was with him when he got the news.

They were both in a meeting with the Prime Minister, so another agent looked after Sherlock.

In a way, she's grateful for that.

She wouldn't have wanted to see him fall.

Or see Doctor Watson's face.

She saw enough of that at the funeral.

The agent was waiting for them when they returned to the office.

She knew, just from the look on his face, that something had happened.

Mycroft Holmes, of course, knew what that "something" was.

"How?" he demanded to know.

Thankfully, there were no surveillance cameras on St Bart's rooftop.

There was one on the building standing opposite, though, and her boss locked himself in with the tape of his brother's fall for two hours.

Then he let the agent know that "It was suicide" and "he wasn't to blame".

It was on that day that she first saw the subtle signs of grief.

And even now, six months after the day Sherlock Holmes jumped, they haven't disappeared. In fact, it has got worse.

He seems to sleep less too; there are dark circles under his eyes, and she has never seen him so tired or irritable or – sad. And she thinks that he hasn't allowed himself to cry, for six long months, but that it's bound to happen soon.

So it would be best to get him out of the office.

It's four o' clock, and she knocks on the door. She hears "Enter".

He is sitting at his desk, head in hands, and for once, doesn't seem to be reading the file in front of him.

Yes, it's definitely time to get him home and allow him to grieve.

"Sir?" she asks. "I was just wondering if you'd like me to reschedule the meeting you have in fifteen minutes, with the minister of Foreign affairs – let's say eleven o'clock, tomorrow morning?"

He looks up and wants to say "No, of course not", but seems surprised at himself when what comes out of his mouth actually is a "Yes, please, I'd think that's a good idea".

"Very well, sir. I'll tell the chauffeur you wish to go home" she answers and leaves his office, to make any argument impossible. But just before she closes the door, she hears a quiet "Thanks. Take the rest of the day off".

So she does, goes home, takes a bath. Then she realizes she hasn't cried either – though, of course, she has no right to – but she's already crying, so she might as well finish it.

She feels better afterwards, and her boss seems to be more himself too, the next morning, though she's certain he cries himself to sleep last night.

But the signs of grief are less pronounced.

All in all, she's rather glad.

One Holmes in the world is still better than none, after all.

When he has his faithful PA at his side, that is.

**Author's note: Hey, me writing a story about a character that is given very little time in the series? Surprise, right? **

**I know that in the stories Mycroft knew that his brother survived, but you can do so much with him grieving – and it is a plausible theory, at least it's the way I interpret the scene with him imitating Sherlock's thinking pose in the Diogenes Club.**

**I'm gushing about Mycroft and his role again when I should be writing about Anthea, right?**

**Anyway, I think she's rather interesting. It's nice to see a female character who is quite clearly a workaholic and still has some "free time", and seems to be quite good at her job too (let's face it, Mycroft wouldn't have her working for him if she wasn't). I tried to give her some depth though – we don't know much about her.**

**And here we go with the unnecessary long author's notes again. Sorry for that.**

**I hope you liked it, and please review.**


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